Tear Asunder
by SrslyNo
Summary: Love is never having to say you're sorry to your BFF when you stake him through the heart. A oneshot in the Blood Bros 'verse vampire!Wilson. Written for Halloween. If you are new, there's a quick recap of previous events in part one. Slash. Last chapter.
1. Chapter 1

**Warning:** A mix of sweet and salty. Angst, Supernatural

**Disclaimer:** Just playing with my anatomically correct House and Wilson dolls.

**A/N:** Written for Halloween and **soophelia**. This is a oneshot, but belongs to my Blood Brothers 'verse. For those who are new or need a quick recap, **there's a quick rundown of pertinent information before the first chapter**.

The story is set three years in the future.

* * *

**Previously on Blood Brothers:**

_Wilson is a vampire. He was turned against his will while in med school. Contrary to vampire lore, he can walk in daylight as long as he wears sunblock._

_House stumbled upon Wilson's secret when Wilson fell ill after Amber's death and lost his main source of food. House unwittingly gave Wilson a "transfusion" of his own blood. This caused a connection between them that eventually lead to a satisfying relationship._

_**Fang Fun:**_

_* Wilson has a tattoo over his heart that only House can see. It is the insignia of Wilson's clan, "La Famiglia Della Rosa." A vampire line that Caesar Borgia began during the Renaissance. Caesar still leads the "La Famiglia" and is commonly called the Borgia, Borgia Prince, or the Godfather._

_* Wilson's sire is Zehava, and she receives direct instruction for Wilson's education from the Godfather. Wilson was an experiment, and given minimal vampire training to test how much of a vampire's behavior can be attributed to nature or nurture. Eventually he is provided with a spell book to get him up to speed, but is of little use because of a curse._

_* Vampire love is virtual but phenomenal. It happens when a vampire drinks from his/her minion/victim. House and Wilson eagerly indulge. A positive side effect: House does not suffer leg pain as long as he has virtual sex on a regular basis. He uses a cane outside of the apartment to keep up appearances._

_* House discovers he is a vampire hunter and that the Borgia approves of his relationship with Wilson. The Godfather believes the rare coupling of vampire and vampire hunter can be powerful and put to good use in the future._

_* The Borgia is the possessor of a magical ring. The gold from it is highly prized._

_* House wants to be a vampire, but Wilson is hesitant. He constantly cites how excruciatingly painful embracing can be, and there's a good chance that a vampire's territorial instinct will tear their relationship apart._

_* Every vampire fears becoming a Nosferatu and serving time in the Hell Pit._

_**Now, on to the good stuff:**  
_

* * *

**Chapter One:**

That damned book was back in their lives.

House pushed open the door of their apartment to reveal Wilson stretched out on the couch, grabbing the open tome as if it were a steering wheel, spinning and twisting it in his hands.

He slammed the door shut with exactly the right amount of force to get Wilson's attention.

"Hey, House. I brought home Thai. It's in the kitchen."

House heaved a sigh of relief. Wilson was still aware of his surroundings. It was hard to forget their last experience with Wilson positively hypnotized over the cursed book; but with it cleansed of the silver dust, life was back on track.

Wilson's eyeballs were spinning in their sockets when House returned to the living room with a container of food.

"The book is doing it again." Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose to help focus and held up the book for House to see. Sentences literally snaked over the page like a train hugging a mountain pass.

"This version doesn't suffer from constipation like the other. Just a bad case of dyslexia."

"Must you diagnose the book every time you fix it?" Wilson raised the volume higher over his head.

House ran a fingertip along the surface and everything froze. The only challenge remaining for Wilson was to translate the bastardized ancient Latin. "Done."

Babble from the television filled the space between them. House plucked noodles from the take-out container while Wilson occasionally mumbled incantations. Finally, Wilson shut the book and let out a frustrated sigh. "That's enough aggravation for one night. Let's talk about tomorrow. Looks like we're staying home this Halloween."

"We are?" The fork slowed, as House checked out Wilson.

"Yeah. I never received an invitation for the Come as You Were Ball."

"You didn't get one." House kept the question a statement as he considered the possibilities.

"No, and it's the thirtieth. We're safe. I turned over emcee duties to Brown this year for the kid's talent show, we're completely free. Want to pass out candy or catch a scary movie? The university's showing _Dracula_ with Bela Lugosi."

"I'm busy."

"Busy? You do know you could go to jail for planting razor blades in apples?"

"No, I received an invite to meet with the Borgia. You're sure you didn't get a card?" House spoke slow and deliberate while he watched Wilson's reaction. Shadows flickered behind the brown eyes, and his fingertips danced on the tooled-leather cover before tossing it onto the coffee table.

"Nope. No card this year." Wilson said, too casually. He swung his legs off the couch, and rising quickly, headed toward the kitchen, his cell phone clutched in his hand. "Zehava…?"

The rest of the conversation was lost on House as Wilson shuffled into the kitchen. When he returned, his lips were curled into a careless smile, but his face was ashen. He shrugged. "The Godfather wants to see his favorite vampire hunter. A limo will be waiting for you at the curb, 9 PM sharp."

Wilson stood for a few beats panning over the room while his hand rubbed the back of his neck, his dark eyes troubled. He eventually settled his gaze on House, and moved toward him as if about to give him a kiss, then stopped. Instead, he murmured, "I need to get some fresh air." Turned away and walked out the front door.

* * *

When Wilson didn't return before midnight, House went to bed, but he couldn't fall asleep. His mind sifted through every small scrap of information he acquired about vampires and La Famiglia. The cold hard truth was Wilson had no aptitude for a vamp's life. If anything, he tripped over his vampirism like an oversized cape and turned it into a liability. Stanka had quickly sniffed out Wilson's pedigree, gifting him with a gypsy curse. The same with the invisibility spell. Wilson hadn't figured out how to become invisible, only how to be ensnared by Bill's insanity. Three years after the ball, and Wilson had not made any progress. Not even enough to command words to stay on the page.

Sleep overtook him, but always a light sleeper, he awoke to the dim, cool light of dawn when the bed rocked with Wilson's weight. He shifted to read Wilson's face. It glowed waxen like the moon. Stress had clearly siphoned energy from his vampire.

"You must be thirsty after your outing."

"I'm fine."

Wilson's arms encircled House's waist, and pressed his body close, reminding House of when he was a boy, floating on a cool river stream. He answered by wrapping his leg over his partner's and pulling it toward him. He needed to forget himself in Wilson. "Let's flip a coin. Heads we make love, tails we have sex."

Wilson's hand possessively stroked House's arm. Cool lips brushed his neck and teeth nipped at his pulse. Instead of the customary welcoming bite, Wilson's cheek moved up and nestled against his own. Wilson whispered an unexpected request. "Remind me what it feels like to be human."

Instead of rocking and soaring to a throbbing beat, they initiated a slow dance. House led. He simultaneously succored and fed from Wilson's mouth. His tongue lapped at Wilson's throat encouraging a purr of pleasure. He reciprocated as Wilson's hands, warmed from his own body heat traveled over his chest, stopping to tease his nipples. Wilson's hands roamed over his torso like a blind man committing a passage of text to memory. Love and neediness blended into a blanket of passion.

Hungry for his own needs to be satisfied, House took his time, his tongue and mouth lapping Wilson's sweet skin. No longer salty from sweat, it tasted like violet petals preserved in sugar. He continued down the chest, wiry tufts tickling his nose, and switched to wet kisses along the soft indent of the stomach. He did not stop until he made contact with his primary objective.

He'd forgotten how pleasurable human sex could be. His hand stroked responsive flesh. Wilson's hips bucked encouragement. Dizzy from his overloaded senses, House fell prey to his own animal instincts. He and Wilson blended as one. They were like two thunderstorms clashing and coming together in a magnificent act of nature. A roar escaped House's throat. Wilson was not equipped to gasp, nor could his cheeks blush with blood, but he hiccupped grunts that answered his own groans. When he was completely spent, he collapsed onto Wilson as his own heart raced and he tried catching his breath.

Medical training caused phantom alarm bells to go off inside his head when Wilson's chest did not raise or lower, and no heartbeat thumped under his ear. House ignored the clanging. These were frills Wilson put on as an act if the necessity arose. This awkwardness was one of the reasons they seldom indulged in physical sex. He tried rolling back to his side of the bed, but Wilson's arms held fast—the only sign that the man was very much undead.

As House drifted into a deep sleep, an errant thought crossed his mind that would be forgotten by the time he woke up. Wilson was an ugly duckling trapped between two worlds. If only others could see the swan that he saw, a doctor haplessly turned into vampire. House involuntarily shuddered. Even if others could see the swan, they would never see beyond the hunt and kill.

* * *

Gloom won out over sunlight. A thick cloudy gray sky varnished the hospital and surrounding roads with a slick mist. House hustled into the building, hunched over his cane, doing his best to look physically miserable, and hide the emotional turmoil below the surface. Wilson left early and hadn't said a word. He left behind a token of affection in the form of a fresh brewed pot of coffee.

The day plodded along in a surreal fifth dimension. House worked with his team on a case that moved from disease 'A' to disease 'B' and back again. Unfortunately, cancer never entered the equation, so there was no need for a neighborly consult. But every time he looked up, Wilson seemed to be drifting by, an exotic fish checking out the humans on the other side of the fish tank. Watching House, but never quite making contact.

They ate lunch together. House eating his food and most of Wilson's. Wilson busily pushing bits of a half sandwich around his plate, all the time quietly going over the usual litany of vampire warnings: not to speak unless spoken to, address the Borgia as Lord, keep his observations to himself—better yet, make his mind a blank slate, and most importantly, and don't behave like a jerk. House hoped Wilson was through when he stopped for a second, but it was only to reload and launch a zillion questions in his direction.

"Are your shirts back from the laundry?"

"Check."

"Are your shoes shined?"

"Nikes look better with a little wear on them."

"Jeeze, House. Your dress shoes. Where'd you put them?"

"Chucked 'em out the window. Tried shutting up our neighbor's amorous cat."

"What?!"

"Didn't work. Not until I tossed your sweater vest at him."

"The cashmere one? The one I've been looking for?"

"Could be, but not to worry, you get the litter's first pick of mittens."

Wilson shot a glare from under his eyebrows and returned to his original interrogation. "What _are_ you planning to wear?"

"Are you my mother?"

"House, this is an audience with The Godfather. It's like meeting the Pope."

"I'm sure the dress code is completely different. The Borgia and his pals will insist I remove my honking silver cross before speaking to him."

"This is ridiculous. You know what to wear—your tux, like three years ago." Wilson shook his head and checked his watch. "I'm not continuing this conversation. My schedule is light. I'll clear the rest of the afternoon and check your wardrobe myself. You're gonna dress right if it's the last thing I do. Meet you back home, and don't be late."

The day ended much the way his morning started. As he left his office, the cloud cover sizzled with a thin stripe of golden apricot where it met the horizon, and melted back into the backlit clouds of the night sky before he made it to the elevator.

* * *

The door was thrown wide before he had his keys out of his pocket. Wilson hustled him into the bedroom, stripping off clothes as they went. His tux and shirt were laid out on the bed, a box with brand new shoes sat alongside. Leaving him alone to get dressed, Wilson went back in the living room. With two more hours before the arrival of the limo, House stretched out on the bed and tried to figure out the purpose of the Godfather's summons and Wilson's strange behavior.

All the questions and preparations were Wilson's way to hide that he was worried. House was worried too. If he timed everything right, he could dawdle until the last minute so there would be no time to talk. Wilson put an end to that notion a half-hour later when he stuck his head in to see how House was doing.

"You're not dressed or shaved? What are you waiting for?" Wilson hissed, "Get ready."

House reluctantly rolled off the bed.

* * *

With ten minutes to spare, Wilson did a three-sixty around House. His arms folded in front of him, his eyes inspecting every detail. House didn't receive any sign of approval until Wilson nodded and said, "You'll do." Little lines of worry intensified around the eyes, but his tone was light. "I don't have to worry about you, do I? You'll play nice with other boys?"

"Don't I always?"

"No." Wilson's voice broke.

Used to the connection between them, House never gave it a second thought, but tonight the pull was like a magnet. He stepped toward Wilson, and Wilson did the same. Close enough to see his reflection in Wilson's eyes, he did not reach out and touch. Neither did Wilson.

House cleared his throat. "One invitation spells trouble."

The answer was as loud as the silence that filled the room.

"You're on your own, House. Take care of yourself."

Lips brushed across his, and a deep kiss sent a thousand messages of love. He absorbed each one and replied in kind.

When Wilson pulled away, House saw a battle brewing behind the warm eyes. He caught Wilson flexing his hands into tight fists, and when he returned back to the eyes, they were filled with stone-cold onyx. Something snapped between them. A palpable wrenching. House knew at once it was the connection—it had gone dead. House had never felt so bereft. He reached out. Wilson was only three feet away, but the distance was a chasm. "Wilson—"

Hands shoved deep into his pockets, Wilson backed away and disappeared into the shadows of the empty hall. All that lingered was a barked command.

"Do whatever they ask."

The words rang in his heart as he walked out the apartment door. Why did everything come with a secret subtext today? The sex, the lecture, the kiss. Why did everything feel like goodbye.

* * *

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** **Written for Halloween, there's still some goodies in the treat bag! Thank you for the nice reviews for part one.**

My thanks to _hwshipper_ for her wonderful suggestions as beta.

* * *

No sooner did House reach the sidewalk, than a sleek black limousine slid up to the curb. Inhaling a deep breath and squaring his shoulders, he convinced himself that the evening could not possibly get worse.

The chauffeur opened the door, and House glimpsed a red stiletto heel hugging a comely leg.

Zehava, Wilson's sire, and his mother-in-law-from-hell, lounged within. Her beauty was deceptive. On Halloween she looked like a film noir goddess upgraded to Technicolor. Her sleek blonde hair flowed like glowing lava over her ivory skin, which accentuated her juicy cherry lips. She was decked out in her fuck-me ruby dress with a slit that that accentuated her long legs. With the self-assurance of Snow White's wicked stepmother, she was born to wear the high-collared cape framing her face. To innocents, she was a foil wrapped Christmas present concealing a box of poisoned apples.

"Are you going to stand there all night?"

"If I have a choice—"

"GET IN!" His sentence was cut off with a banshee's screech.

The Voice. House couldn't stop from clenching his teeth. If he'd known Zehava was coming along, he would have brought his industrial grade earplugs. Actually, the last time he saw her, they had gotten along fairly well, but Zehava was an acquired taste. Like a plunge into a chilly swimming pool, it took him time to acclimatize to her on each occasion they met.

He dropped into the seat, but kept a safe distance, saving his eardrums from as much damage as possible. "Are you here to see your boychick?"

Her plump lips pushed into a tight line worthy of her childe. "The Godfather wants to see you. He asked me to be your escort."

House screwed his face into a leer, but before he could chide her about her rates, the flat of her palm shot up and made it clear she would not tolerate his humor.

"This is no laughing matter. You're expected in fifteen minutes."

"Fifteen?" That could only mean one thing.

With arms held out, she nodded for him to come closer. He slid next to her, wrapped his arms around her waist, and found a choice location on her ample breasts to rest his head. The velvet cloak swept over him like a Nascar flag signaling the start of a race, and the leather upholstery was no longer under him, the limousine left far behind. Before his nose became desensitized to Zehava's musky perfume, he was standing inside a richly appointed reception area. A plush carpet cushioned his feet, and gaslit sconces flickered and threw ripples along the walnut paneled walls. No windows graced the space, but House knew he was in the ghostly environs of the original Waldorf Astoria, the headquarters of the Godfather of all Godfathers, Caesar Borgia.

As if taking a cue from Wilson, Zehava did her own inspection of House. Flicking a speck of lint from his lapel, and smoothing out the lines of his suit. "You will behave," she informed him.

"Don't I always?"

"No," She snapped back.

"You and Wilson are two of a blood-sucking kind."

She pointed haughtily with a well-manicured finger and admonished, "Shut up, and mind your manne—" but broke off her tirade as the massive stainless steel doors were silently pushed open by two of the Nosferatu guard. Hairless, hulking, mute creatures dressed from head to foot in black tunics. The cursed servants of La Famiglia.

The gatekeepers marched past them and stepped behind. Two more Nosferatu flanked them, and House was helpless to do anything other than walk with the convoy into the assembly room.

One guard extended a hand toward a podium, indicating that was where House was to stand. Zehava and her band of merry men melted into the background.

House's mouth was as dry as the Mojave. Whatever was going on was damned serious. Worse than any hospital inquiry he ever faced. He scanned the seated individuals.

Eight vampires garbed in black robes sat behind a bench identical to the Supreme Court. All the vamps were topped with silver-white hair, all faces sexless and wrinkled like apple-face dolls. House did not dare to guess if the group was composed of men or women. They were spread out like a candelabra without the center candle. As fast as a spark combusting into flame, Caesar Borgia materialized in the central chair. More youthful than his children, he was the perfect CEO nearing retirement age. He waved his hand and sparkling crystal glasses appeared. Another flourish and the goblets filled with the elixir of life, blood. The vamps wasted no time tasting the vintage, and their eyes shimmered red with approval.

House thought the committee's resemblance to da Vinci's, _Last Supper_ was strikingly similar and far more amusing.

"Leonardo was of great service to me, not only as an artist, but as architect and engineer. Good times, Doctor House."

Wilson's warning, number ninety-three, popped into his mind, _Watch what you're thinking_.

The ageless man spoke in a pleasant voice with little accent or inflection, each syllable measured, as if by a metronome.

Not a breath could be heard, except House's. It seemed like a sacrilege for lungs to suck air and hearts to beat in this chamber.

"Doctor House, thank you for joining us. I apologize for the short notice. Unfortunately, there is bureaucracy and red tape even among highly evolved species as ours, but we are working on rectifying this error, aren't we, Helmut?"

A man at the end of the table raised his index finger an inch off the polished wood, pointing to two young vampires in the back who did a credible job impersonating secret service men. They nodded and hurried out of a side door. The elderly vamp bowed his head in acquiescence toward the Borgia.

"Good. We understand this will never happen again?"

The head dipped once more.

The Borgia interlaced his fingers and leaned forward, locking onto House. "Last time we met under happier circumstances. It was my pleasure to award our young vampire, James Wilson, the rank of cavaliere. We have watched his progress with great interest." The tapered fingertips created a steeple. "Hervé?"

A small man at the other end mumbled a few words that House could not make out.

"Speak up, Hervé. There's a human among us."

"The cavaliere studies the Book, my Lord."

"List what he has mastered."

House stayed outwardly calm, but a creeping unease tickled down his spine.

"Nothing, my Lord."

"Surely, this cannot be. Wasn't he grappling with invisibility three years ago?"

"Um, still grappling, my Lord."

"What about transformations?"

"No, my Lord"

"Levitation? Flying?"

""Mais non, mon Prince."

The vampire's nerves were flaking away under the questioning.

"Mesmerization?"

"Non, mon Prince."

"How can this be, Hervé? How far as he read? Halfway?"

House felt a cramp in his stomach.

"Not quite, mon Prince."

"One hundred pages? Fifty? How bad can it be? Twenty-five?"

"My Lord—"

"Enough of this guessing game. Out with it. You can't possibly tell me he's on page five."

"Page three, my Lord."

"Three pages." The Borgia gazed upon House, "in three years. Can you do the math, Doctor House?"

"Be happy to. That works out to over a thousand patients a year who can thank Dr. Wilson for saving or lengthening their lives."

The steepled fingertips tapped against each other. "You forget. None of us here are interested in the living."

"Until it's time for lunch."

"Not cancer patients. Their blood is weak and tainted with too many drugs. Doctor House, your loyalty to your Master is gratifying…"

"Chalk one up for Wilson."

"…but not enough. You have a scientific mind. What do you do when an experiment fails?"

"Review the research. Run the tests again. Check for contamin—"

"I don't think so. I believe your response would be, 'Scrap it and move on, People.'"

The evening was turning into a nightmare. "Why didn't you just bring Wilson with me if you were going to kill us both, or was that another snag in your red tape?"

"I never said anything about eradicating the two of you. I blame Hollywood and novels for giving vampires such a bum rap. Perhaps I show my age by preferring plays by Machiavelli." The Godfather shrugged, but permitted a mischievous smile. "As a vampire hunter you show potential. How about I make you an offer you can't refuse?"

House's stomach rolled over and died. What was the Godfather _not_ saying? Overshadowing his thoughts were Wilson's last words, _Do whatever they ask_. House didn't want to hear the offer, much less accept it, but he managed a curt nod.

"Join us. Become a vampire. We are always looking for fresh, new talent."

_Do whatever they ask._

A vampire. House had asked Wilson a dozen times to embrace him, but this wasn't the scenario he envisioned. "What makes you think I'd be interested?"

"Eternity for one. Pain management for another."

"Wilson provides all the pain management I need."

"You can't always rely on Wilson. His abilities are minimal at best and can't stand up to a fully indoctrinated vampire." The Borgia looked around the room. "Where is Arthur?"

A young boy, House would gauge around eleven, walked from behind the seated committee members. His innocent brown eyes stared at the Godfather as if he were a runaway waif from a Charles Dickens' novel, humbly waiting his punishment.

"Arthur, demonstrate your skills for Doctor House."

The slender child swiveled in the direction of House. He blinked.

A sledgehammer slammed into House's thigh. His hand kneaded the remaining muscles, but he had forgotten how horrible the pain could be and he doubled up. Fighting to overcome the streaks of electric current shooting from his leg, he straightened, and grated through his teeth, "A momentary twinge. I'm fine."

"Very courageous of you, Doctor House, but I know you are not. Imagine no pain. Never rely on anyone or any medication to help control it. Pain free, forever."

The Godfather was persuasive. He was better than any pitchman House had ever seen on QVC, but he did not want to give in to him. "I can live with this."

"Then, can you live with this? Arthur, a full body scan, please."

House tried to retort, but agony enveloped him and he groaned. An invisible wrecking crew worked on his body. Sand paper burned his skin, razor blades peeled back ribbons of flesh. He was imploding like an old school Las Vegas casino. Blood bubbled into sulfuric acid that clawed at the walls of his stomach, liver, spleen and intestines until they popped. Fluids and waste from his body seeped into his marrow turning to jelly, his bones withered into dust. Delicate lung tissue sprung apart like rotted lace. He was suffocating, his body convulsing…

Through the high shrill pitch of soaring pain, House heard the Godfather say, "Enough, Arthur."

His body continued to explode and rip apart—

"—I said enough, Arthur."

The demons ceased devouring his body. House stretched, and flexed. Everything felt and looked in perfect working order. He stood up from the floor without any aching squawk or a crackle from his joints.

"That continued entirely too long, Doctor House. Please accept my sincere regrets." The Godfather shook his head and clicked his tongue. "The youth today are very ambitious." He turned toward a shriveled mummy directly to his left. "Mitzi, what have I said about instilling obedience into our fledglings?"

The mummy eagerly nodded and hiked a thumb toward Arthur to vanish. He did.

House ignored the apology. "Cute kid. Give him growth hormones, and he could run Wall Street in six months."

"We have bigger plans for him than the stock market, and we have even bigger plans for you. Are you convinced?

_Do whatever they ask._

Why was he resisting the offer? Obviously, Wilson knew the score, and wanted him to go along. "Let's say I take you up on your no-pain-as-long-as-I-live-for-all-eternity proposal. What's the catch?"

"You must first demonstrate your worth first, and… prove to us you can switch your loyalty."

"How."

"Kill Wilson."

_Do whatever they ask._

House felt the ground rock beneath his feet. "No."

The vampire tribunal shifted angrily in their chairs. Sixteen unnaturally long canines gleamed like icicles hanging from a wintry eave. A choir of growls curdled his ears. The Godfather motioned for everyone to settle down. When all was hushed, he inspected his fingernails. "Naturally, as a minion, it is hard to change allegiance. Let me make this simple. If you don't agree, you will be thrown into the Hell Pit and become Wilson's dinner."

"You'll turn Wilson into a Nosferatu?" House choked out as cold dread trickled through his veins. This was Wilson's one true fear. He'd told House on several occasions he'd prefer to be dusted than become one of the living dead.

"Exactly." The Borgia permitted a smirk. "I knew you were smarter than you looked."

_Do. Whatever. They. Ask._

"How? When?"

"With this." The Godfather's hand beckoned.

One of the doorkeepers stepped forward. A plain wooden stake lay in the center of a dark blue velvet cushion. A glass cap protected the point.

"Take it, Doctor House, but avoid the tip. The slightest contact with flesh and it will dull, causing the victim unnecessary pain."

House picked it up. The wood fit comfortably in his hand and was warm to the touch. He removed the cap in order to see the sharp nib, but it was so fine, he needed his reading glasses to see it properly. Replacing the glass cylinder, he grudgingly pocketed the lethal weapon.

"I am not an unreasonable man, Doctor House. To lessen your impending grief I'm offering what you might call a signing bonus of four grains of gold from my ring."

"What good will that do me, without Wilson?"

The Godfather's groupies hissed in offense.

"Don't be so fast to dismiss such a gift. Armies have been recruited on less." The Borgia lifted his hand toward the other guard.

The thug offered a silver tray with a goblet filled with a garnet wine .

"As to the 'when' … as soon as we drink a toast."

The desert in House's mouth had grown into a worldwide drought, but he refused to participate in this mockery of manners. "I'll pass."

The Godfather's eyes narrowed to match the sharp quality in his voice, "I insist." Then, it softened. "It's for your own good. The wine will dull your pain for what you are about to do."

"A cask wouldn't do the job." Swept up in the moment, House was furious. He picked up the glass and downed the contents.

He immediately realized his anger had gotten the better of him. His body trembled and vibrated as if he were driving on a rocky roadbed. Black dots splashed in front of his eyes as his knees buckled and he fell into an abyss.

_tbc_


	3. Chapter 3

_This is it, the last chapter. Hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. My thanks to everyone who commented along the way.  
_

* * *

"Is that how you…?"

A veil of fog lifted. House heard a faraway voice that resembled Wilson's, but huskier.

"What was I supposed to do?!"

House rubbed his forehead in an effort to clear the clouds in front of his eyes and the throbbing ache behind them.

"Keep him out… trouble."

The voice did belong to Wilson. House squinted into the dark in an effort to make out where he was. His bedroom. The other voice was Zehava's, grating and emphatic as ever. She and Wilson were arguing in the living room.

"Lecture him? You know better than me how well that works!"

"Right. What was I thinking." Wilson answered wearily, the tone unusually brittle and flat.

Fuzzy thoughts coalesced into a utopian fantasy. The ordeal never happened. There was no limousine, no tribunal. He dreamed it all. Zehava must have dropped by and her histrionics penetrated his senses, sending him galloping into a raging nightmare. That was it. The dopiness and headache must be symptoms of some flu bug he caught in the hospital. By the roughness in Wilson's voice, he must be coming down with it too. Even more corroborating evidence, his leg pain lay dormant. Everything was fine.

Word bursts escaped from the living room and wormholed into his brain. He looked at the luminous dial on the bedside clock. It was a little past midnight. House couldn't wait until morning to find out what was going on, he needed to know now. Groggy and dizzy, he steadied himself with his hand against the the wall as he made his way toward Wilson and Zehava.

Zehava stood over the couch while Wilson huddled into a dark mass upon it. At least, House thought it was Wilson. He was dressed for a snowstorm. The McGill sweatshirt peeked through a hooded jacket that covered his face. His hands were stuffed into gloves, and he was concentrating on taking a glass from Zehava's hands without spilling the contents. Neither turned in his direction.

House stepped back into the shadows. He needed a moment to absorb what he saw. Zehava was in the same red dress as his "dream," and the glass Wilson quaffed was filled with ruby blood. There was no avoiding the fact that the evening's events had happened. But why was Wilson dressed that way and drinking blood? House rubbed his fingers along his neck and found no trace of raised puncture marks. The gory treat had not come from him.

"House?" Wilson croaked. "Don't come any closer. Stay right where you are."

Cursing under his breath, House was annoyed about being caught.

"Zehava?" Wilson burred the name of his sire, shredding it into sawdust. House wanted to massage his own throat in sympathy.

She turned toward House and walked him back to the bedroom. "We need to talk."

"After I talk to Wilson."

"All in good time, but first, _we_ talk."

He tried evading her, but she blocked and corralled him into the bedroom.

"He asked me to speak for him. To spare his throat, and to prepare you." She motioned for him to sit on the bed. She picked up the clock radio on the nightstand before joining him, but did not talk until she set the alarm and placed it back next to the lamp.

The ache in his belly returned. It was unlike Zehava to stall. "What's going on?"

"You have until sunrise to stake Wilson."

"And if I don't?" He looked straight into her eyes, but her reaction to his steady gaze was to turn away like a cat and find something else to hold her attention. She rearranged the folds of her dress.

"He'll turn if you don't."

"He's already turned."

When Zehava looked up, her Ceylon sapphire eyes sparkled with tears. "He'll turn into a Nosferatu. The change is already happening. That's why his voice is hoarse. He did not want you to be shocked when you saw him."

"That's why Wilson was all covered up?" House puzzled out what he had witnessed. "Is that why he's drinking blood?"

"Partially. He has the Fever. As his body changes, he uses energy. No furnace other than the Hell Pit can warm him."

The desolation in Zehava's voice was disturbing.

"Is he in pain?"

"No…not much. The blood helps control the symptoms. House, he's afraid you will be unable to bear seeing him. His skin—"

"—Is turning uber white? I know what the Nosferatu look like. Do you think I care? It's Wilson. He could turn into a Teletubby and it wouldn't matter."

Zehava's hand grabbed on to his upper arm like a vise. "But he doesn't want to become Nosferatu. No vampire does. We all prefer the stake, and if you don't follow the Godfather's instructions, you will condemn your master to a living hell."

"Kill Wilson, or else." House ran a series of scenarios in his head, but not one idea bore fruit. He was a rat trapped in a maze. "No good news? Where's a good apocalypse when you need one?"

"Will you take this seriously? Maybe Wilson can convince you." Zehava rose, but House stopped her.

"One more question. Why did the Godfather drug me?"

"It was for your own good…mostly. So, you could handle this calmly. Without your connection your leg won't act up and prevent you from fulfilling the directive, and… Wilson is unable to feed on you. At this stage, he could go into a frenzy and kill you, but the Godfather tainted your blood so he can't. It will stay in your system for twelve hours—long after Wilson is gone."

Overcome with information he could barely digest, House could only nod. Zehava left in a blizzard of clicking heels. The sound was replaced by shuffling.

"Hey." A windy greeting blew out of a tunnel. Wilson leaned against the doorway, his head down, hands shoved into his pockets.

House walked over and braced himself before tenderly lifting the chin. The face was altered, but recognizable…to him. Black pupils rimmed with a line of cherry brown. The face molded from white candle wax with soot settling into half moons under the eyes, leaking into creases along the cheeks. A thick mottling of clay formed cirrus clouds above the eyebrows. Two similar spots crusted over the cheekbones. The lips were swollen into grubs.

Wilson winced and turned his head away from the lamp. He shivered as if an ice storm blasted over him. House ran his hand over the scaly forehead. The skin was scalding.

"How are you? And don't say you're fine unless you want me to stake you here and now."

"I'm c-cold."

He pulled one of Wilson's gloved hands out of a pocket and tugged at the leather. The fingers were ice and the nails nearly black.

"Come to bed. I'll warm you." As House pushed Wilson toward the bed and prodded him to slip under the cover, Wilson balked at taking off his clothes. House yanked blankets from the closet and heaped them on top of the bed. He added robes and thick coats, anything he could find. He shed his own garments, shut the lights, and burrowed into the thick cocoon.

He pulled the bedclothes over their heads to trap his body heat, and was startled by two luminous orbs staring at him. He'd seen feral red, coveted silver, and dreaded gold, but never this eerie blue-violet rimmed in pulsating crimson. He turned his attention to peeling off Wilson's clothes and received little cooperation, clumsily stripping layer after layer away until down to the glacier body. He wrapped his own frame around the vamp the best he could, pressing his warm flesh to the stone cold skin. This close, Wilson's tremors and occasional shuddering spasms became his own. He heard teeth chattering near his ear as he rubbed his hands, legs and feet over the frozen limbs, sparking heat from the friction. He ignored his own protesting muscles and concentrated on the trembling until it slowed. The tense muscles began to relax and Wilson's arms snaked around his waist. House felt an imperceptible hug.

"Are you defrosting, Snow Queen?"

"Y-yeah. Wh-what time is it?"

Not only was Wilson's hypothermia in check, but his vocal cords had regained elasticity. His words bumped along a cobbled street, but were no longer ghosts. House raised his head to see the clock. "Three, we still have hours to decide what to do."

"House, there's only one decision."

Any Wilson was preferable to no Wilson. "I have a plan. You stay Nosferatu. I charm the Godfather into sparing my life and embracing me. As soon as I've earned his trust, I'll kill the bastard and get turned into Nosferatu like you. We live happily ever after in the Hell Pit." The words rang like tin chimes in his ears. "Wait. What the fuck did I just say?"

"The Godfather's wine scrambled that clever brain of yours." Wilson allowed a dry, amused laugh. "Not a chance of that happening." He became somber. "Besides, before today is over, I won't remember you."

"Wilson—"

"Did it ever occur to you why the nightly news never reports drained bodies littering the tri-state area?"

As long as Wilson's hands were kneading his back, House could care less, but he answered, "I'll take werewolves for one hundred, Alex."

"Contrary to belief, lawyers are not the lowest form of pond scum. Nosferatu are. They don't drink blood. They dispose of humans... by eating them."

His hand stopped gliding over Wilson's skin for a moment, and then continued. "You couldn't do that."

Wilson's thumb massaged the base of House's neck. As if realizing what he was doing, the digit flew away. "I'll have no choice. Right now, I'm not only cold… but hungry. Promise me when the time comes, you'll stake me."

Holding out for a last minute save, House did not answer and could only grumble, "Of all the vampires in all the world, why did I end up with the world's biggest fuck-up?"

"Why did you bail me out of jail when we first met?" Wilson asked in a lighter tone.

"Because I wanted to know how a doctor fresh out of med school could be such a loser."

"See? That should have been a warning for you to run in the opposite direction. You know what impressed me about you? Your caring and generosity. Posting bail and buying me dinner afterwards. To think I fell for your charm." Wilson added with mock bitterness. "The last time I saw you pull cash out of your wallet."

"Had to make a good first impression."

Thick lips pressed against House's cheek. He was sure it was a simulation of a kiss. He returned one in kind.

"You should take the Godfather up on his offer. You'd make a great vampire." Wilson encouraged.

"It will be boring without you."

"How is that possible? You can turn Cuddy into your minion. No more clinic hours. You could turn Foreman and Taub—"

"Boring. I already screw with them…"

* * *

Every half hour, the fever would flare up, but House had caught on to the first sign. The purple eyes would reflect brighter, like shining marbles. He would immediately administer a dose of deep heating rub to the mild chattering and shaking before it was difficult to treat. Soothing Wilson so they could continue talking as if they were not in a hellish countdown.

In between, House deflected any discussion about the pending execution with banter. He selected his minion dream team, the three C's: Cuddy, Carmen Electra, and Christine Aguilera, but while he did so, he committed to memory everything he could capture about Wilson. No detail was too small. He recorded the texture, taste and temperature of his skin. The eyes that glowed silver, teeth that could nibble, but refused to bite. His smell. House closed his eyes so he could concentrate on the touch that heated his passion, and listened to the whispered babble that was returned from his own knowledgeable hands. House sank into a melancholy nirvana until—

—Frank Sinatra crooned...

_"Some day, when I'm awfully low,_

_When the world is cold,_

_I will feel a glow just thinking of you..._

_And the way you look tonight."_

"Shit! You and your oldies station, Wilson. After I stake you, I'm gonna smash that clock radio."

The bed shook with a soundless chuckle. Wilson could hardly speak, his throat had constricted again, but he whispered. "Fitting. Billy Joel kicked off our friendship, Ol' Blue Eyes might as well provide the eulogy. How about we get this over with before Zehava comes in yelling and ruins the moment." He eased off the mattress and chose among the detritus on the bed a pair of jeans and a jacket.

"Where are we going?"

"The roof." Wilson whispered. He was already heading out of the room.

House hustled on some clothes and trooped to the living room. In stronger light he could see what he had learned by touch. Wilson was a walking corpse, covered in leathery, white skin edged and shaded in black. A strong reminder that time was running out. Zehava stood alongside him.

"Why not here?" House swung his arm over the furniture. "Afraid to make your precious living room dusty? You behave like such a little ghoul." House chided as he joined Wilson and Zehava.

"Hou-" Wilson choked on his name, placed his hand on his throat to try again, "H—ck-ck!" Then mouthed, "Gone." He nodded at Zehava to explain.

"A vampire belongs to the night." Zehava answered for him.

All three trudged single file to the elevator as if they were members of a funeral cortege. At the top floor, they continued to the emergency exit and climbed a short flight of stairs to a small landing. House had hoped he'd have this time alone with Wilson, but kept his tongue until they reached the roof door. He turned to Zehava as he tested the doorknob. It was locked. "You don't need to be here. Three's a cr—"

The handle flew out of his hand as the door thundered outward with a crash and cold air washed over him. Zehava had kicked it with her high-heeled shoe, but she showed no sign of exertion.

"Yes I do. You need me to do _that_, and the Borgia asked me to witness."

"We're not taking marriage vows." House answered bitterly. He was caught off guard by a sudden flush of heat rushing through his body and Wilson's voice in his head.

"_Let it go House, we don't have much time."_

Wilson must have recently paid his back dues to the vampire's union, because the connection was back on and as strong as ever.

House turned. Wilson was a silhouette against fading stars in a disappearing night sky. Only minutes left before the sun would take over. He could make out Wilson's bare chest under the open jacket, the tattoo glowing like an 'X' on a treasure map.

The spike mysteriously pushed into the palm of his hand. He tried to drop it, but it stuck like glue. He could detect a small, amused twitch from the corner of Wilson's lips. "You bastard, you're gonna use the connection for your own selfish purposes."

"_To save us both. House. Just do this? I don't have the energy to send you messages and help you dust me."_

Wilson raised his hand, and House felt as if he were a puppet. He stepped forward. Another jerk of Wilson's wrist and without his permission, the stake rose in the air. His arm trembled as he fought for control, but he could not stop the upward motion, the stake was poised in a perfect trajectory to plunge into the glowing rose tattoo over Wilson's heart. There was a last minute reprieve as Wilson grabbed House's wrist and tried to speak, but could barely move his lips or grunt. House could make out a wave of tears splash onto the white cheeks. Wilson raised his right hand, touched his fingers to his lips, thrust his palm forward, and signed, _"I love you."_

Both arms were stationary at Wilson's side, and House desperately tried to halt the wooden spike, but all he could do was machine gun the same sentiment from his lips, "ILOVEYOU," before the stake pierced its target.

Nothing stopped his hand as it sliced through the body. He thought he had missed, but his aim was true. A nuclear blast went off beside him. A thousand suns exploded and a high-pitched noise beamed from the body, blinding and almost deafening him. He shielded his eyes with his forearm and did the best he could to protect his ears, but the whine doubled him over. He stayed that way until the light and sound faded. Expecting to find a crater exposing the basement five floors below, he saw Wilson's body stretched out at his feet.

_Wilson's body._

No dust, but a body. House was sure he was hallucinating. He kicked at the sole of Wilson's shoe and met resistance. He toed the ribs and thought he heard a vowel break free from the lips.

Immediately crouching down next to Wilson, House checked the pulse, heartbeat, and respiration. There was nothing, but he could argue those were good signs. Wilson's complexion was back to normal—definitely encouraging.

Zehava joined him and kneeled on the opposite side. "Slap his face!"

"My pleasure." House tapped lightly, but struck progressively harder until his hand was numb. He stopped when a hairy arm grabbed his wrist. Wilson's warm cocker spaniel eyes looked back at him. Relieved and stunned, House declared, "This is fucking unbelievable."

Zehava cleared her throat. "Take my advice, and don't say that the next time you meet with the Godfather. A simple 'thank you' will do."

* * *

"This all happened because Idiot here had trouble deciphering the book?"

They were sitting around the dining table.

"Exactly." Zehava clasped her hands in front of her and nodded. "Some of the vampires were jealous of Caesar's interest in the two of you. Wilson was his pet project, and there was much distrust about the possibility of you, a vampire hunter, joining the clan. Apparently, some resentful vamp tampered with the sanitized spell book to trip Wilson up. Normally, a vampire merely runs his eyes over the page to absorb the incantations. Wilson could not concentrate because the words kept sliding off his copy. Someone deleted the charm for strabismus."

"You cross-eyed freak." House uttered the insult with the utmost affection.

"A whisper here and a whisper there, and Hervé could no longer keep quiet about Wilson's slow progress. He would literally lose his head if he didn't report it. Three years is the limit for learning the spells in the book. If word got out that the Godfather was lenient, it would tarnish his reputation, cause a scandal, or worse—a rebellion. He had to come up with a solution that would work within the system and stop the unrest."

"And his unorthodox approach was for House to stake me?" Wilson had spoken little up until then, as if he were afraid to test his voice, but the harshness was completely gone. House observed from the corner of his eye Wilson nervously touching and massaging the suppleness of the skin on his hands and forearms. Apparently, not believing his good fortune.

"To satisfy vampire law _and_ accelerate your learning process." Zehava answered. Her eyes sparkled as she trilled like a fangirl, "The Borgia is a genius!" She pushed the book in front of Wilson and handed him a pair of glasses. "Thumb over the invisibility charm on pages 83 to 87, then shut the book."

The dark eyes opened wide behind the lenses as Wilson flipped the leaves. At the end of the passage, he lingered over a few additional pages before snapping the book closed and blinked his eyes…

Wilson's disembodied voice emitted a brief, awestruck, "Wow!"

House found it hard to keep a straight face and not mumble encouragement as he felt a teasing hand run up his leg to his crotch. Sensations sizzled along his groin, then stopped. Invisibility was decidedly erotic. Only too soon, Wilson materialized.

House scratched at his stubble. He needed to think through recent events. "A near-death experience doesn't cause miracles. There was something about the stake…" A light went off. "Four grains of gold. The signing bonus…came…early."

"Very good, Boychick. The tip was impregnated with gold from the Godfather's ring. It neutralized the stake and became a delivery system to implant gold into Wilson's body and reverse the Fever's effects. And that's why you had to do it. Show the clan your intuitive knowledge about vampires."

"I would have come up with the solution if I had worn my reading glasses when I inspected the stake. Wilson and I are better suited to be poster children for optometrists, not for vampire clans." Aging was a bitch. House had to do something about that…soon.

"You had your hands full." Wilson soothed.

"Full of you. I was as much help as a butcher with a blue-ribbon 4-H cow."

"Uh… thanks."

"ENOUGH!" Zehava said impatiently. Her no-smudge red lips pressed together in a thin line. "The grains were embedded in the tip so neither you, nor anyone else could see them. The Godfather was running the show, and no one second guesses the Borgia. Let that be a lesson to you. Meanwhile, in a few days, Wilson will be a fully credentialed vampire. Best you two lay low while I get the rumor mill churning about my childe and his minion's abilities."

"A happy ending. Well I'll be damned!" House had to give the Borgia his due.

"Given your Master's permission, someday you will." Zehava flipped her hair. "Sorry about all the secrecy, but I was under the Borgia's orders. Spies, you know. Well, this was a long night, but if I leave now, I could catch the tail end of the Ball and report back to Caesar." She collected her cape draped over the sofa, twirled it around her, said, "Night, Boys."…and vanished.

A hand landed on House's shoulder. "You had a long day. Why don't you go to bed?" Wilson suggested.

"I'm not sleepy, but a bite before bed sounds good." House wiggled his eyebrows to make his proposal clear.

Wilson ran his hands over House's shoulders and pecked him on the cheek as he nudged him from the chair and steered him down the hall. "We have to wait a few more hours for the wine to leave your bloodstream. Could you settle for an appetizer of human sex?"

"Hide the salami will have to do until you can serve up an entrée of vampire sex. What should we eat for dessert?" Wilson's arms were still around him, but he vanished like the Cheshire cat. Only a toothy grin remained until it slowly melted into the air.

As House was yanked through the threshold and flung onto the bed, he heard…

"I am vampire! Leave that to me."

_~fin~_

* * *

_The Way You Looked_ _Tonight_, by Kerns & Fields.

_**Thanks for reading. All comments welcome.**_


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